Boots
by PotterGatsbyHolmes
Summary: Sherlock and John are called out to the brutal murder of a beautiful housewife, the details of which have Sherlock anxious for answers. How is it possible? And that's not all that lurks in Sherlock's mind lately. Some dark, horrible thing he has been concealing from John will surface...but will John accept it? Or will he turn his back on Holmes forever?
1. Chapter 1

**Boots**

"John."

No reply.

"_John._"

No.

"JOHN!"

The doctor emerges from his room, stumbling, a towel about his waist, wet hair. Oh. I didn't notice the shower was on. How odd…usually I would…not that I care much anyway.

"_What's the matter, _Sherlock?" John's voice pulls the brakes on my train of thought. I clear my throat.

"Case."

"Now?" he sighs, exasperated. I heavily sigh back, mocking his reluctance.

"Yes, now. Get dressed. Lestrade personally requests we grace him with our presence." John thumps back up the stairs grumpily. Why is he grumpy? Our last case was six hours ago. I've already been bored for three. I scan over the file Lestrade's sent via John's email. No signs of sexual assault; hands and legs bound to the bed; strangle marks; broken and slit neck; backs of the knees slit; massive blood loss- and that's just the basics. I smile. I can't wait.

We sit in the back of a cab and John stares out the opposite window. He's still angry about the whole jumping-of-a-roof business, but that hardly seems relevant to how he's been acting lately: always staring into space, wandering aimlessly about the flat, sagging eyes that seems to have, pardon the absurd expression, lost their light. The only reason I bring John along to the crime scenes now is because I'm used to it and used to him- not because he'll be of any use, which he will not be. I look over at his vacant face.

"John." He tears his eyes away with difficulty from the flying London scenes outside to look at me. Yes, his face seems to say. I cough, not knowing what to say next.

"Um. Are you ok?" I ask, my back rigid and face awkward. I thought I ought to ask, although I don't know how. Usually I would assume a more comfortable, assuring mask, but John doesn't comply with 'usually'. He nods, and an expression so riddled with sadness it shocks me passes over his face as he turns to look back out at the grey buildings. Embarrassed by this sudden display of emotion, I move awkwardly to my left, copying John's movements. We sit in silence for the rest of the ride.

John and I arrive at 167 Lancaster Court when the sun is at its highest. It's an attractive two story house made of bluestone and gothic architecture surrounded by oak trees and, now, police vehicles. Inside, however, it is fairly modern. I looked at the slight yellowing on the walls and small cracks near the sink- early nineties renovation then. We are led up stairs to the body. Her peroxide blonde hair is strewn about her face, smeared with thick makeup. Her hands and feet are bound with a thick, scratching rope, like a sailor would use; Her pale blue 50's style dress is pulled up to her thighs and she wears red pumps; the backs of her knees are covered with congealed blood, as are her ears, the creases of her elbows and her throat, which is cut, stangled and broken. We've only been here three minutes but I have what I need. Next, I scan the room. _Heavy boot prints, _I note, _work boots, chipped, stained with fresh mud. _I take a sample of the dirt and three photographs of the best print I can find. There's signs of a struggle, but it was weak-she was already injured before being dragged here. The largest deposit of blood is in the kitchen. Anderson rounds the corner. His voices grates on my ears as I attempt to concentrate. "Hello, Mr Holmes. Good to have you back." Ugh. I can virtually smell his vulgarity.

"Pity I can't same the same to you, Anderson." He sneers and slinks back into the other room. Quickly I delete the conversation and move on to more interesting details. Height, gait, size, rough age estimate. It's amazing what you can tell from a footprint. A few more photographs, situations considered and glares at Anderson and it's time to leave. John looks exhausted. I suppose I shouldn't blame him; he doesn't sleep like me. "Lestrade," I bark, "You're looking for a male, possibly late 30s, strong, 6 5' and dangerous." I glance back at the woman on the bed. She'd ironed her dress and done her hair before this happened. She was meeting someone. The door was forced, though, so she didn't know the assailant. I grab his arm and pull him towards a cab. Lestrade goes to stop us- always needing more from me. For the first time after the fall, I'm tired of being around him. The other officers, of course. It was like that before. But Lestrade I'd always labelled as tolerable; now he just irritates me like the rest of them. Maybe it's the uniforms. John stumbles along behind me, fully giving in to my erratic lead towards the taxi. We climb in and almost immediately John falls asleep against the window, his breath leaving small spaces on the glass that remind me of the Numbness.

John doesn't know about the Numbness. It's the childish name I give to a terrifying thing. It comes when I am alone, suffocating and thick. It envelopes my mind and body and blurs everything into horrific, vague shapes. Memories that haunt and regrets that bleed. It is made of everything dreadful I have tried to forget. The Earth going around the sun: easy. My entire life before 221b: not so much. Sometimes I think John notices, but he dismisses it as me thinking. I see the razor; I see the syringe; I see the gaunt face in the mirror, with its cheek bones of broken glass and crimson eyes. I see a child huddled inside a black coat his father gave him in a corner, his face drowned in tears and crying out into the darkness in a desperate bid for someone to hear, to care, to comfort. That was the day ice crept into my heart. No-one cared and so I too would not make that mistake. I built a wall against the Numbness made of ice and razor sharp cruelty. And I hid. But it creeps back sometimes, in the night under my bed, tapping on the window. It drips menacingly from the roof as I lay back on the sofa. Maybe the Numbness has found John. I hope not.

I exit the cab in a hurry, coat swishing in my haste and stride up the stairs. John follows, trudging along groggily, wiping sleep from his eyes. As soon as we reach the first landing of 221b, he turns and ascends the staircase, footsteps heavy and tired. I leave him to his own devices. Being around John when he's not like himself is uncomfortable, and I don't mind being away from him for a while. I sit down and assess my notes. The girl: 32 years of age, born 27th of March, 1981. Married once, no known enemies, adored by all (the usual sob stories - no one ever condones the dead) and one child, not present at the time of death. He was with his father, playing in the park. If people care about each other so much, why don't they stay together? He left to entertain the child and she wound up dead. John and I don't spend much time apart and we're both alive. It seems logical; but then again people rarely see logic. My thoughts have strayed to John again. _Hmm, _I think, _why is this? _I abandon my case notes, because there is hardly anything to work with. John's ill, and usually I get him to do field work. But now I only have Scotland Yard, and I know which one I prefer. Sighing, I decide to check on him, just quickly to see if he's ok. I hope he doesn't expect me to wait on him hand and foot, because Satan will be ice-skating before _that _happens. I am merely…observing. Yes. Merely observing.

John's door creaks a little as I glance in. Very rarely have I ever been in John's room, save the one time I borrowed his old walking stick (experiment) and I came back after my elaborate false suicide. I grin. Even though it was undoubtedly hard leaving John, I couldn't help but feel proud about how well it went. If only I saw Mycroft's face…My eyes trail to the body lying in the bed. John. He looks free in his sleep. Happier, somehow. The soldier, the doctor, the friend…my friend. A surge of warmth spreads through me as I remember everything he has ever done for me, then do a double take as I realise _how _much he _has _done for me. Suddenly I see John in a different light. He really has saved me: killing the cabbie, protecting me when I was too focussed to see the danger, taking care of me. I truthfully believe if John had not arrived when he did, I would not be here today. I watch his rhythmic breathing for a while and imagine scenarios where he wakes up and sees me and then he smiles and I would smile and… I shake my head. _No, Sherlock. You can't afford to love. _My mind flies back to the all-encompassing Numbness and that's how John finds me two hours later laying on the sofa, my face vacant and heart beat slow.

He shuffles in, fully dressed, but wearing slippers. Sleep is still clinging to his eyelids and the light from the sun makes his face bunch up in annoyance. I notice none of this until he calls my name. It sounds like trying to tune a radio, until I'm finally on the right channel.

"_Sherlock,"_ I glance up, he's standing directly above me. I tilt my head towards him as a sign I'm listening. He rolls his eyes.

"Do you want breakfast?" I give a non-committal grunt. "Right, no. Oh, and Lestrade called while I was in bed. He left a message. They've got a suspect. It's the-"

"-spurned lover." I finish. Lestrade can be so stupidly romantic. Does he not think I would have looked that variable over already? John's face shows traces of surprise, but soon he accepts once again that I know all. Though maybe not in those words.

"Yes, well. I thought you'd like to listen to her." My eyes snap open.

"Her?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, everyone's had their little flings." John blushes as he says this but I pretend not to notice. I close my eyes again.

"So she was with a woman? A woman whom she spurned… Hmm. This could be probable. Certainly women are more prone to revenge than men…but then, how…" How where the boots so heavy and how were the strangle marks so strong and why, why, why? I sink back into the pillows and hear John sigh. What the sigh means, I cannot interpret and I don't care. But my ears catch a hint of disappointment as he turns away and my heart gives a little. No. That's ridiculous. The structure of my heart is in perfect order. A tiny thought in my head tells me that, while this is true, my chemical balance is not in perfect array. I open one eye and look at John in the kitchen. He's humming a simple tune and making tea. I lean back and smile.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2:

My phone rings harshly in my ear the next morning and outside the busy inhabitants of London are beginning to wake. The city hums like a hive; all of the little worker bees are stirring. I fumble tiredly around my beside table, not entirely devoted to taking the call. The thought that it might be Lestrade dramatically increases the stakes and my search quickens. Picking up the device I look at the caller ID.

Mycroft.

I groan excessively and throw the mobile into the armchair positioned in the far corner of my room. It hits the upholstery with a thud and its broken tune is muffled by the Union Jack pillow I stole from John when he wouldn't allow me to take a blood sample. I told him quite clearly I needed a sample from and inferior specimen, but that didn't seem to please him. I don't know why. He stormed off before I could ask him what I said to offend him and besides, I thought I was according him a special honour. I certainly wouldn't ask Anderson to participate. He's far too inferior anyway.

I roll over, trying to convince myself to climb out of the warm cocoon, tempting my mind with thoughts of new case details and such things, but it was no use. I begin to tell myself I'm far overdue for a shower when John throws himself into the room, armed with a pillow and clad only in a crumpled white singlet and dull brown pyjama bottoms. I mentally save the image for later, taking in the comic look on his face. It's contorted with rage and challenge, but his eyes are filled with terror. My smile fades. "John?" I ask tentatively. He sees me and, there is no other way to put it, unwinds. Every muscle (of which he has many I now realise) relaxes and his knees buckle. Quicker than I ever thought possible, I catch him, my forearms under his shoulders. He hides his face in my dressing gown (I slept in this one) and sighs, his breaths shuddering and quaking. "I. Thought. You." he puffs, "Gone. Moriarty." I sit him on the bed next to me and look him in the eye. "What do you mean?" John's face is filled with horrific relief; the kind that comes after waking from a nightmare. Slowly he looks up at me. A new emotion, powerful and intense radiates from his eyes and body language. His breath slows to a shallow pant.

"I heard you moan. And then something was thrown; I heard it. And, lately you've become quite withdrawn." He smiles fleetingly. "Well, more withdrawn than usual," I don't smile, but am wondering, could John notice when the Numbness takes me after all? He continues shakily, "I thought, maybe…Moriarty had been on your mind a bit lately?" His voice is shaky, unsure. "I suppose I'm just being stupid, worrying myself sick over such a bloody trivial thing." He laughs, small tears gathering. I feel obliged to say something 'nice' about his intelligence. But the intense look is still there and all I can manage is, "Can I take a blood sample?" The look is gone and replaced by something I correctly identify as anger. "Damn it, Sherlock!" he shouts, his rage filling up the once quiet space between us. "Can't you let that go? I'm sick and tired of you putting me down all the time!" I go to correct him, to say I simply want to test his chemical balance (or imbalance as it was with me), but before I can, he storms out, almost tearing the door off its hinges behind him.

I walk into the offices of New Scotland Yard, my coat swishing behind me dramatically. John thinks I do it on purpose but it is really just the make of the coat. Although I'm not complaining. Lestrade greets me at his office door, a questioning look etched on his face. "John did not wish to accompany me today." I tell Lestrade brusquely. He gives me a knowing nod and leads me into his office. I sneer. How could he possibly know? He's an ignorant little child. "Do you have anything for me, Lestrade?" The ignorant little child sighs and shakes his head.

"The girl won't talk. We've bought her in several times, including today, and every time she sits there in silence, just cryin'." He shrugs, hands in pockets.

"Just cryin'?" I smirk. The Inspector shoots me a look.

"Yes. Crying." I sweep out of his office, turning on my heel to face him.

"Well, Inspector," I jeer, "A young lady crying? We can't have that, can we?"

Lestrade leads me into a bleak looking room; all white walls, white carpet, white desk. A mousy looking woman sits at the white desk in a grey chair. Her hair is bobbed and dark, her eyes slightly over-sized and darkened by lack of sleep and constant crying. Her pale skin clings to her bones like a child with fundamental attachment issues and her clothes hang off her as loose as a child with anything but. She doesn't look up as we come into the room, nor does she look up when Lestrade speaks. To be honest neither would I. "Miss Hazelwood, this is Sherlock Holmes." She restrains herself but I can tell she wants to look at me, which I consider strange. Why won't she? I don't have much time to contemplate that question before she does; a dangerous suspicion lurks in her eyes mixed with spite and aggression. Well, it is before her entire face changes into that of a weeping cherub. "P-please, Mr Holmes? Can you work it out? Who would do such a thing to Luce?" I'm not listening. I'm still thinking of her grimace; that was the face of a person who could kill. Words struggle past my lips, forming the only answer I would ever give to a suspect: "I don't know, but it seems to me the police believe you could." My thoughts are back on track and I turn to face her. She stares at me blankly, and for a moment I believe other people could indeed suffer from the Numbness, but her stare turns cold and calculating and we begin.

I storm through the door of our apartment fuming. The facts all fit together but don't. It's infuriating. I thud my way to the sofa after throwing off my coat and scarf haphazardly, not taking any notice of where they land. Nancy Hazelwood. The name tumbles around my head, clashing with any other thoughts that might show their heads. Somewhere through the haze I notice the time and deduce that John will be home in an hour and longs for him to be in the kitchen humming, but then, BAM. Nancy Hazelwood. Everything she says fits with the cold hard facts: spurned lover, bitter after separation, she even confessed to stalking her for a month! But nothing, absolutely nothing else to say she ever killed the blonde. Rock solid alibis surrounded her every move and she claimed to be "over that little phase", though, of course, she still wept. Oh and how she wept. The tears never stopped flowing the entire time we interviewed us. Eventually I was so fed up I asked her why she looked so aggravated when she first saw me. She said I had indirectly put a close cousin into prison with the, as John put it, 'Scandal in Belgravia' incident: he'd been one of the photographers to The Woman. And none of the basic facts fit. The door (she knew Luce, although it's possible Luce did not particularly her company), the strangle marks, the strength with which she was murdered and the boots. Oh GOD, the boots. I cannot fathom it. She cannot be the killer… unless she hired or knew someone who could do it. This is highly improbable however as she lived quite a sheltered life. Parents: caring and loving, "accepted her as she was" and mildly religious. Private school and college, which is where she met Luce…! I cover my face in my hands. My stomach rolls and I suddenly have the desire to vomit. I'm still leaning over the porcelain bowl when John returns, my head lying sideways and my face blank. Numbness enveloped me long ago.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3:

**A warning: at the end of this chapter is a particularly violent scene. If you don't enjoy that kind of stuff I suggest you skip it, as the situation will be spelt out in the next chapter. Also I sincerely apologize for the rather scandalously long time between this chapter and the last. I'll try to pick up my slack **

I wake up in bed feeling hazy and the smell of vomit surrounds me, though it is faint and mingled with the harsh stench of surface cleaner. That's John's work, I think. Mrs Hudson buys a different brand. I smile minutely, realising that my deduction skills are up and running reasonably quickly. A quiet humming strays from the kitchen to my door and my smile broadens. I lean my head further back into the pillow and sigh. John. John's back. "JOHN!" I shout. Well, if he's back he might as well be of use- I could use some tea. The slow scuff of slippers tells me he's only just woken up. Hmm, I wonder what kept him awake. No, wait. He's here now-time for deduction. Bloodshot eyes, tea in hand, hands paled by the cleaning equipment, hair mussed from fitful sleep, dressing gown barely crinkled or even warm yet. John turns his tired, experienced eyes to me, taking in my pallor and the likeliness of another bout of retching, which by the way, is at a minimum. I kept him awake last night. John's back. I smile.

"Sherlock, are you feeling better?" he asks, shuffling over to feel my forehead, as I nod, adopting an annoyed expression. Sometimes it's so inconvenient to spell everything out for him. My thoughts are miles ahead of his understanding. If he could read my mind…no. He mustn't know about the Numbn- "Careful what you wish for…" A young Mycroft's voice shouts through my memory, ricocheting off the sides of my head. No. Not now. No. "I wish you had never been born!" My voice now. Then Mycroft's cackling laughter. He had a high voice as a child. "Careful what you wish for! You were a mistake, that's why you're all wrong!" "No." I mumble aloud. Everything is blurred. "I'm not a mistake! I'm not all wrong!" "Yes you are! Why do you think Daddy tried to get rid of you, then?" "Sherlock? Sherlock!" John. The razor. John's here. Mirror. Can't see me like this. Pills. John. "Sherlock?!" John. A voice that's not my own fights its way out of my throat.

"Help."

John's hands on my shoulders, shaking. Darkness.

I wake to the sound of beeping, important sounding machines, irritated voices and sterility. My first emotion, pointless as they are, is anger. John has taken me to the hospital. There is no doubt it was John as my clothes are folded precisely the way he folds his own on a chair in the corner, whilst I wear a hospital gown. And he's the only one who cares enough, I suppose. I groggily look up and attempt to get my bearings. White walls, pale blue floor, hideous pink curtains, mid-eighties design, hanging since…1988, have been washed approximately five times. Charming. There's a television suspended in at an absurd angle above my head, so that even if I wished to kill more brain cells than I already do naturally, I couldn't. A light snore brings my attention to John, slumped uncomfortably in the twin of the corner chair beside me. His right hand lies through the bars, open and slack. I look at my left hand to see the slight imprints of fingernails in my skin, as if someone had held on tightly. My gaze turns back to John, and I see the wear and tear lined in his face, the way his hair falls messily across his eyes when not brushed, and I feel a twinge in my chest and the machine beside me starts beeping more regularly. The quickened noise shakes John from his awkward sleeping position and he immediately checks the monitor, then me. He is still wearing his slippers. I meet his gaze and deduce that he is happy, presumably because I am awake, but there is something else too. I see it and he sees me seeing it. The happiness fades a little. I clear my throat. "Were you present when I was transferred from my much more comfortable clothes to this horrific piece of fabric?" A slight blush rises in the man's cheeks, but it is not one of embarrassment as per usual, but one of pity. "Yes." he croaks; with emotion or sleep I don't know. I persist. "You saw them, then?" His grey eyes glance to my thighs, where the thin, white scars lay embedded in my skin forever and back to my face. There are tears in his eyes when he nods. We sit in silence for approximately seven minutes and twenty-four seconds. Finally he clears his throat and asks, "You did those." Not a question, but a statement, but I answer anyway. "Yes," I reply, "with a blade from my father's razor." John moves as though he wants to be closer, but checks himself and sits back in his grotesque chair. Silence ensues and eventually John nods back off to sleep, his hand now on his knee. After half an hour's deliberation, I place my hand in his and the machine's technical melody picks up its tempo.

The floor creaked quietly as a dark figure slid across the polished timber floor. A woman stood at the kitchen bench, carrying a small, dimpled child. She was singing softly, an Italian lullaby and the boy had his head resting on her shoulder, half asleep. Lucy's boy. The figure slipped past the pantry, avoiding other squeaky floorboards and pulled out a length of rope, rough and course in their gloved hand. The nanny didn't hear a thing until the rope was tugged tight across her throat. The boy cried out at the figure and clung to the nanny. The intruder tore him from her arms and threw him into the corner, where he promptly curled up and wailed. Kneeling on her elbows, the figure squeezed the last of the air from her lungs and slit her throat with a kitchen knife. They turned to the little boy in the corner who was whimpering now and lifted a finger to their lips. Quiet. Then, turning back to the girl they dipped a finger in the dark red pool beneath her head and began to write on the pale wall. They then strode across to the crying boy and tied him up with the rope used previously and placed him beneath the words on the wall. The figure stood and looked about the room, hands on their hips, as if proud of the atrocities they had just committed, and calmly loped out, closing the door softly behind them. The boy could hear the heavy boots thump down the hall. There was no need to be silent anymore. The child looked up to the wall, smearing blood into his hair. He could just make out an arrow, pointing downwards to him, and a word. He cocked his head further to the side to read it.

"NEXT."


End file.
